


Whisper of the Soul

by AlphaKantSpell



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Person Of Interest - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Daemons, Crossover, Daemons, daemon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-29 12:51:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlphaKantSpell/pseuds/AlphaKantSpell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Daemon!Person of Interest: This is a story about the POI gang and how different things might be if their souls walked next to them as animals.  No real knowledge of “His Dark Materials” required.  However, a basic read up on daemons through a wiki page would be highly encouraged.</p><p>DISCONTINUED</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For full effect, feel free Google the animals and names of the daemons for symbolism for why they were chosen.

_Octopus_

Contrary to his name, Harold Wren’s daemon was not a bird.  However, Harold Octopus did not a name make.  It was a shock when Zipporah settled as _Thaumoctopus Mimicus_ , in common, Mimic Octopus.  All their life, she had taken the shape of birds.  There was a flashy Peahen when he was being particularly vain, the mild mannered Waxwing when he wanted other children to like him, or the constant Grey Parrot when they were in school, hungry for knowledge and always, always testing the limits of whatever technology was in front of them.  Even Zipporah’s name meant “little bird”, an obvious prophecy for their future.  When she stopped changing shape, most people who saw Harold assumed she settled as a dusky raven, sharp witted with haunting elegance.  Of course, if one cared to speak to Harold or Zipporah at that time they’d know neither preferred the form. 

            It was _nice_ but it wasn’t _right_.     

            That being said, it was still quite a shock when Zipporah changed into a banded octopus in the middle of a jog, her tentacles wrapping around Harold’s neck for stability.  Everything happened just as he got to that Runner’s High, by far the best part of his morning.  There was the sound of his breath, his shoes on pavement, and solitude.  Just he and his daemon existed then, calm and free to wander through complex thought without falter.   

Harold had been thinking, planning how he would make code dance when he got home and something shifted in his chest – it stuttered as his knees gave out and Zipporah was heavier and spread out like a hand over his back - but it felt _good_.  Oh this was perfect.  Another jogger slowed and asked if he was alright but Harold waved him off.  Both Zipporah and Harold breathed for the first time, like they had only now learned full use of their lungs.  Yes.  Yes, this was what they were.  He pulled up from the squat he’d been in and reached for her.  Zipporah crawled into his hands as best she could, adjusting to her new arms and top heavy structure. 

            “I like this one,” she told him.  Harold’s feathery grin matched the excitement in her voice. 

            “Me too.  This is the best.” Her tentacles coiled around his wrist, new suckers testing his skin as she watched him with unblinking eyes. 

Zipporah didn’t have feathers anymore.  She didn’t have talons, or feet to speak of or even eye-lids.  She wasn’t capable that silly head tilt that she made when amused with him.  So radical was her change that she’d gone from warm blooded to cold, airborne to aquatic.  Harold had never heard of someone changing species so late in life unless caused but extreme stress; horrible things like war or rape and a number of other traumas. Certainly nothing comically mundane as an early morning jog.  Harold and Zipporah were almost sixteen, two years later than when most children settled.  All of their life they had been birds, always birds.  Harold would have panicked if he didn’t feel so wonderful with his daemon’s new and final form.  A Cephalopod.  _Huh_.

“I do still have a beak,” she reminded, and nipped at him with her mouth part.  Wincing, he peeled her off his hand and scrutinized the red welt she’d left.  With this tiny reminder of what they used to be, Harold found he didn’t mind everything else so much anymore.

            Almost delirious when they got home, Zipporah guided him to the bathroom where he dumped her in the tub for water.  She wasn’t a real octopus so she didn’t need a constant supply of warm marine water.  At least he hoped.  Zipporah splashed around for a while, playing with her new limbs and the colors she could change them before Harold joined her.  He had been jogging, after all. 

            “This is going to change a lot of things, isn’t it,” she said.  Zipporah’s voice was murky from being waterlogged but still kind as it had been when she was a canary.  For this, Harold was grateful.  Kindness was something of a rarity in his life.  He was happy with wherever it came from, even if it was just his own daemon.    

            “No.  Not everything,” he replied, but it was useless to lie to her.  Instead they focused on their new understanding of themselves and Harold tried to recall everything he knew about octopi.    

 

001001001001001001001001

_Dog_

All quiet in the Carter house, Joss put a hand to the door separating herself and her sleeping son.  Taylor had a big day, between the giddiness of Mom coming home at last, and preparation for his father’s funeral.  Joss didn’t blame the child for tinkering out.  She was about ready to fall asleep on her feet, too.  If it wasn’t for the boy’s grandmother, Joss didn’t know how she would have gotten through it.  She knew Home would have a different pace than Iraq but Joss felt like she needed to relearn how to walk.

  Thinking of Taylor, tax from the day’s weary pain drained from her system, leaving Joss warm and exhausted in the way of a marathon opposed to a march.  Her years in military service made that a clear distinction.  Marathons came with a sense of victory that wasn’t guaranteed in the military.  Victor, Joss’ Doberman Pincher daemon whined, so unlike his typical stoic regality.

“Wanna say goodnight?” she teased him.  Victor’s eyebrows pinched together like a pensive whippet.   

“You are exceptionally cruel,” he told her, matter of fact.  Joss rolled her eyes.  Back to usual.  Victor’s voice and stance were ridged as an iron pres. Joss stood in a powder blue robe from the wrong end of the ‘90s and heavier bags under her eyes than the ones she brought home from her last tour.  Daemons had several ways of coping through the horrors of war.  Some allowed their person to hide them from it all, others reveled in the blood.  Victor was a minority daemon who came out of war more serious than his person, bearing the brunt of their pain so Joss wouldn’t have to.  

It didn’t happen overnight, but when Joss looked at a picture of herself _before_ , she realized Victor lost his ears and tail.  They had been warned it would happen, of course.  Dog daemons that went through military service tended to emulate their animal counter parts – for fighting dogs this meant docked tails and cut ears for the breed standard.  Until their service, Victors looked like every other natural Doberman; floppy eared with a whip tail.  Any Doberman bred for show or work had their tails docked and ears cut in their puppy years.  Victor’s withered to the appropriate size through their service.  Looking back at the time table, it started after Joss’ first kill.   

“So, do you want say goodnight?” she prompted again.  Some men came back from service with their daemons so close to their chest it was like they never wanted to touch ground again.  Joss and Victor had separated.  It wasn’t anything like Intercision, thank goodness, but their link had most definitely been muted.  Victor took the pain and sorrow for himself and remained the grounding force so Joss could smile and love.  With such a rift between their emotions, Joss had trouble guessing what her daemon wanted from her.  Sometimes she wondered if he was still hers. 

What strips were left of his ears fell flat against his head and Victor’s trained gaze washed down to his paws. 

“What if I am a bad parent?” 

Joss kneeled beside her daemon and wrapped her arms around him.  He’d allowed her to hold him close like this when they were young, when thunder like gunfire cast jagged shadows over their room and Joss was scared.  His warmth and steady heart lulled her back to sleep.  All through the war, through mortar fire and soul sickening events, Victor was her guide and grounding force.  Now it was her turn.

“It’s impossible for _you_ to be a bad parent because _we_ are in this together.  There are two of us, Vic.  It’s time we stop acting like we’re different.  We’ve got a kid to take care of now.” 

Victor remained still as Joss rubbed his back.  His dour eyes looked miserable as she stood and opened the door.  Taylor lay in bed, his daemon favoring the shape of a wombat as they slept, Taylor’s arms wrapped tight over her bulky frame.  Victor followed Joss into the room, hesitant as a mouse.  Once they got to the bed, he leaned his head over and pressed his muzzle to the wombat.  She made a mewling sigh and Taylor strained to open an eye.  Joss sat and ran a hand over his forehead before kissing her boy. 

“Hey, baby,” she cooed.  “It’s just me.  You can go back to sleep.”

Taylor mumbled something more and grabbed her hand.  His wombat twisted about and wrapped a paw around Victor’s muzzle.  Smiling, Joss knew she and Victor would work things out. 

        

0001001001001001001

_Iguana_

            Lionel supposed he should have known better when his partner put the shovel in his hands.  For weeks now, Cornell had been acting squirrely, odd for a man with an Army Ant daemon.  Cornell was meticulous, always straightening every detail and stressing to Lionel that one could never be too careful, especially in their precinct.  IA found dirt Cops every time they turned over a stone.  Lionel laughed it off, of course.  So his superior was crazy about doing things ‘by the book’.  It didn’t bother Lionel much.  Sure, he and his iguana, Nadia liked to take things slow but he understood other personalities worked at different paces than them.  At the end of the day they did good work as police.  Maybe not as good as those jocks and their dog daemons but Lionel was proud of their work.

Then Cornell disappeared for an entire day after saying, “Don’t say anything to anyone!”

  Nadia looked up at him, large gray eyes blinking.  Cornell left in such a rush that Lionel hadn’t the time to ask what not to say anything about.  Close to his punch-out time, Lionel worried something happened to his partner, maybe a criminal seeking revenge or the man got caught playing detective while chasing down a scent.  Nadia asked him to wait a day before going to the Chief, hopeful that everything would work out in the end.  They were trying to be loyal.  Lionel knew it wasn’t supposed to be their trait, Nadia a reptile, but he was determined that they wouldn’t become just another dirty cop.  On the other hand, they didn’t want to be a rat, either.  It just wasn’t in their blood.    

He scratched a nail behind Nadia’s jaw, the iguana closing her eyes as she sighed.  Lionel decided to listen to his daemon.  It was what you were supposed to do, after all, to listen when your daemon told you to do something. 

Cornell reappeared the next day, just as Lionel was making his way to the Chief.  He was so relieved that he wouldn’t have to stumble over an excuse to why he hadn’t mentioned something wrong, earlier, that Lionel missed the dry panic in Cornell’s expression or the way his ant, Ophelia kept clenching her mandibles.  They looked horrible.    

“Where the hell were yuh?  I was this close -- this close to calling in SWAT for yuh.”  Lionel squished his pointer finger and thumb together to show Cornell just how serious he was as he squinted at the man.  Nadia hurried along the linoleum floor and stared up at Cornell with her dopy grin.  They were happy to see him.  Cornell ran quick fingers through his hair and smiled, but the edges were tight.   

“I need some help.”  Lionel’s demure changed and he scooped up Nadia. 

“What kinda help?”

Cornell didn’t say a word as they drove out to the woods.  Lionel kept pestering, an uneasy knot growing in his gut.  Cornell’s knuckles whitened with his grip on the wheel.  Nadia lay her head on Lionel’s lap.  Her claws dug into his coat.  It was March but the air was still too cold for her tropical temperament.  Frustrated, Lionel worked the heater and pointed the fans at Nadia to warm her up. 

Lionel must have asked thirty questions on their way into the woods.  All of them were answered when Cornell pressed the shovel into his hands and led Lionel to an overturned log.  A body hid amongst the moss, slugs already gathered about his mouth.  Two garnet bullet wounds punctured his chest, police uniform stained.  Cornell was absolutely still, Ophelia poised on his shoulder, ready to strike.    

“What the hell,” Lionel gaped, both hands on top of his head as he tried to understand. The shovel fell forgotten and Nadia hurried to get out of the way.  Lionel turned to Cornell and his partner’s brows were tight.

“I need your help, Fusco.”

“No kiddin’.”

Lionel reached for Nadia and scooped her up, slung on one arm with her nose wedged by his underarm.  She didn’t want to see this.  They already understood what was happening, even if Lionel wanted to deny it.

 “You shot a Cop?”

“No!  No I shot a no good rat,” Cornell spat.  Ophelia thrashed her mandibles.  “He was puttin’ drugs in my car to frame me of pinching evidence instead of him.  It was either him or me, so I chose me.” 

Happy for any excuse to look away from the corpse, Lionel studied his partner.  The story didn’t feel right.  The story didn’t feel right . . . but his partner had always had his back.  Cornell and Ophelia were with him from day one, rough around the edges but dedicated to building them up.  He’d helped Lionel overcome the stereotypes with a reptile daemon.  Lizards and insects weren’t exactly respected as police.  It was common rumor that every reptile daemon meant a dirty Cop.  Lionel was no dirty Cop.  Maybe a little less privileged or educated than others but he was good police.

“Why didn’ yuh just report ‘em?”   

“Are even listening?  I shot him while he was puttin’ drugs in my car.  That’s not exactly self-defense.  Not any that The Law will appreciate, anyhow.”  Cornell heeled his eye with a palm and cursed.  “I need your help.  Fusco, you gotta help me.”

Dogs were loyal.  Reptiles were dirty cops.  Chewing his lip, Lionel stared at the corpse again.  If he left Cornell alone he was ditching his partner.  If he helped he’d be dirty.  More than anything, Lionel wanted to be a good, honest man.  The stigma of an iguana was a powerful thing.  Iguanas were fat and lazy.  Lionel wanted to be more than that.  He wanted to be loyal.    

“Just this once, okay?  I ain’t bailin’ yuh out a’ second time.”  Lionel helped Nadia to the ground and picked up the shovel.  Cornell gave him a slap on the shoulder and a rusty ‘thank you’.  Lionel waved him off; sure it would be a onetime thing. 

 

001001001001001

_Wolf_

            By nature, John was quiet. The CIA didn’t need to waste time honing it in him.  He just was.  John said no more than a handful of words through the day, less on mission.  Whatever rasps could be pried from him were quadrupled in importance because of it.  Kara joked that half the time she and her Serval daemon Larcan had a better chance getting a volleyball to talk than John and his Maned Wolf.  Morna, John’s daemon, said less than the man himself.  When a person was quiet, sometimes their daemon made up for it.  They chatted and blurted and gossiped till other daemons had to kindly say “Shut the hell up!”  Then there were ones like John and his daemon, comfortable going an entire day without a word but between the two.  

            Kara had never heard Morna speak.   She grunted now and again, barked when needed on mission, and growled fiacre enough to make the hairs on Larcan stand on end.  Even when emotions from undercover work boiled over and John and Kara fucked against a wall (it could never and would never be called ‘making love’ – that was what John did with Jessica), Morna didn’t make a noise.  Larcan would nuzzle the bigger animal, nip her ears and carry on a one-sided conversation but Morna stayed resolute in her muteness.  If John opened up more about their past, Kara wouldn’t have been able to blame the daemon.

            John awoke to Morna licking the underside of his jaw, her rough tongue scarping his skin and some of the dirt that had collected there.  Groaning, he squinted at her and ran numb fingers through her matted, rutty fur.  Her ears tipped down and a whine issued from her chest, skin around her neck vibrating John’s fingers.  Closing his eyes again, John patched together his thoughts. 

            Cold.  Dizzy.  China.  Kara betrayed them – no.  The CIA betrayed them. 

            Morna whimpered at that and John wrapped both arms around her, pulling the large dog against his wounded chest to hold the both of them together.  They were alone again.  It happened all through their life, friends and family distancing themselves from them because of what they were.  Morna was called a Maned Wolf, but she wasn’t a wolf and she wasn’t a fox or a dog.  The species she came from was something left over from an extinction event.  Just by looking at Morna, a person knew something was off about John.  Wolves were an ancient sort of daemon, befitting of war and struggle.  It was no animal for a modern setting.  Dog daemons could tell there was something wrong with Morna and others had the sense to be weary.

            All their life, they wanted nothing more than to be left alone.  Well, alone with one other person.  Maned Wolves did not travel in packs but they were never completely alone.  He shared his life with Jessica and had done so with Kara.  As long as they had one person to stabilize them, they were without fear or regret.  Now John was slammed by both.

            Morna cried and pressed her nose into the crook of his shoulder, trying to be close as possible.  John had heard stories of people with their souls inside their chest.  It felt like Morna was trying to do just that. 

            “Morna, Morna please.  My wound.”  Where Kara shot him in the back.  It went clean through but he was still bleeding.  The dog-that-wasn’t rolled off and licked his cheek.  John struggled upright and Morna helped his balance, leaning against his legs as he steadied himself.

            “We’ll be okay,” he told his daemon, scratching behind an ear.  He winced as the muscle around his wound pulled.  John grabbed Morna tight and allowed his daemon to lead him out of the ditch they’d been in.  “We can go back to Jessica.  We can see her.  It’s okay, we’re free now.” 

            Morna gruffed and John started to smile.  They lost Kara and Mark and the Agency but they were free now.  They would survive.  Jessica and her Golden Retriever would make sure of it.  They always knew how to sooth John and Morna, knew all the tricks and between-the-lines dialogue.  Kara’s Serval and John’s Maned Wolf were both predators of grasslands but there was nothing quite like a dog daemon meeting with (almost) another of their kind.  Things would be perfect again, like they were before The Towers.  John was so sure of it now there wasn’t a doubt.  His chest lightened and Morna’s steps were steadier.    

            “We’ve got a long road ahead of us but we’ll be alright,” he promised.  Morna believed him.   


	2. Chapter 2

_Wolf_

     “You got a name?” Detective Carter asked, an honest smile at her lips.  John smirked.  Her daemon, a Doberman with his ears clipped and tail docked (military service) continued watching Morna, unafraid of the much larger dog.  The Doberman’s stance spoke volumes for his and Carter’s confidence.  They’d seen what John and Morna had done on the subway and stared right into their eyes.  Not many could do that, even the stupid ones and John knew by the breed of the detective's daemon that she was no idiot.    

            “You know, it’s funny.  Seems the only time a person needs a name is when they’re in trouble.  So tell me, Detective.  Am I in trouble?” 

That got an unhappy grin from Detective Carter.  Her expression was open and emotive while her Doberman remained stoic.  Interrogation training 101, get the human to talk but don’t let your own daemon give anything away.  One of those easier said than done activities like saying you’ll go sky diving and actually jumping out of the plane.  
            Carter tapped her chin as she watched him.  “It’s interesting, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a daemon like yours.”

“I’m not surprised,” John responded.  Morna was a unique creature, in the animal world and as a daemon.  He turned his attention to his Maned Wolf and Morna gave him the same, blank stare she’d been stuck with since they learned about Jessica.  Now and again, John could pantomime emotion but Morna had nothing left to give. 

“Is she a color variant of a Shepard, or something?” Carter asked further.  Color variations were rare but not unheard of.  They were more common than mix breeds, though.  John shrugged his shoulders.  With her matted fur, Morna could pass for any number of stray dogs.  The trouble was that she wasn’t a stray.  She was a daemon, and daemons were a reflection of a person’s psychological health.  Matted, grungy fur was unnatural for such a creature.  To be frank, John was surprised Carter hadn’t called an institution for him yet.  He didn’t mind either way.  John was tired of wondering. 

He allowed Carter to take the cup, an obvious ploy to run his fingerprints.  Morna continued to lie under the table, her jaw on her paws.  She wanted to die.  Morna hadn’t told John, hadn’t spoken to him – not with words anyway – in years.  John knew she wanted to die because he wanted it, too. 

John’s instincts screamed at him as his “lawyer” plucked him from the precinct; sure the CIA had caught up with him.  When Morna remained calm and watched him with dour eyes, John knew they were done.  He climbed into the limo, Morna at his feet but big enough to rest her jaw on his knees.  John pet her ears and waited for the bag over his head or an injection.

 

001001001001001001

_Octopus_

            At 0400, the sky was bright gray with the sun’s prelude.  Air was crisper, then.  Birds warmed up their voices and businesses shook off the night’s rust for the new day.  Harold loved it.  This was always his favorite time to jog; not that he could anymore.  Zippora loved it too.  There was just enough mist in the air that she could peek out of the water pouch Harold had tailored into his jacket.  Long ago they learned the necessities of an aquatic daemon.  Since the . . . accident, Harold wasn’t able to support the larger carry-case common place for those stranded with such a daemon.  To put it simply, his neck and shoulders couldn’t support the weight of bullet proof glass, and extra ten gallons of water, and his daemon.  To compensate, Harold’s jacket came tailored with a deep, moist pocket in a waterproof pouch and for short trips.  It was enough.  Nowadays, Harold didn’t leave his computer often.

            “I’m excited,” Zipporah told Harold as she peeked with a large eye out from the pocket.  One of her tentacles wandered out to investigate the cold air. 

            “Oh, hush you,” Harold warned.  One of them had to be composed for the meeting. 

Harold doubted Mr. Reese (Harold read through books worth of information on the man and determined ‘Reese’ to a name the man would appreciate the most) would agree to help him on their first meeting.  The trouble was that Harold's daemon was an octopus, and Harold learned early on that cephalopods were notorious for getting bored.  She was eager to meet their potential employee, even if Harold still had his reservations.   

            “Remember to stay hidden unless I say otherwise,” he instructed.  Zipporah sighed and slipped deeper into the dark pocket. 

            “You are no fun, anymore.  I liked you better when we had Grace.” 

            Harold ignored the way his heart lurched at his daemon’s words but knew better than the listen to her.  Daemons wanted what they wanted.  There was little logic in them, the same as the heart.  Harold was experienced in ignoring the wants of both.  He knew they could never see Grace or her Hummingbird daemon ( _Ocreatus underwoodii_ ) again.  It was safer for Grace to believe Harold was dead, just as it was safer for Zipporah to hide when they were in public.  Not many people had octopus daemons but Harold did have multiple aliases.  If several men in New York had a rare deamon of the same breed, two and two would surely be put together.  The less anyone knew about Zipporah, the safer they were.  For all parties involved. 

            Left pocket buzzing, opposite of the side Zipporah was in; Harold fished out his cell-phone and checked the text.  Mr. Reese was on his way.  Within moments the dark limousine pulled up close Harold as it could.  He stared ahead at the bridge, retracing the speech he’d been planning to give Mr. Reese for the weeks that he’d been watching him.  This was the make it or break it point.  Sure, Harold had back-up plans to his back-up plans for getting Mr. Reese on his side, but the first impression set the ground for their working relationship.

 Canis daemons (Mr. Reese’s _Chrysocyon brachyurus_ )required a different approach than birds or cephalopods.  Their pack demands were different from a pecking order Harold understood from Zippora’s years as a bird.  Depending on the personality, Canis needed to play alpha or beta, sometimes omega to whoever had the higher power.  Mr. Reese has been on his own for months and would distrust anyone trying to play alpha to him.  However, the man needed direction.  That much was clear from psych evaluations Harold hacked into from the CIA.  Mr. Reese was a beta, living an alpha’s life. 

Such distinctions were foreign to Harold and his octopus but he understood that mammal daemons saw the world differently.  From Harold’s experience with Nathan and his Elephant ( _Elephas maximus_ ) named Pilar, he was somewhat versed in the proper mammal behavior.  Nervous as he was, Harold was ready to accept the challenge.  Anything to help the Numbers.    

In a last distinction, Mr. Reese was also a CIA wolf, any hint of domestication trained out of him.  This required Harold to appeal to the man’s base needs, yet remain the stronger party in their relationship.  Harold wouldn’t stand a chance in a fight with the man, but it he played his cards rights, Mr. Reese would never dream of biting the hand that fed him.  Harold was confident they would succeed.  Zipporah was a Mimic Octopus, after all.  Pretending was their skill.    

Harold pivoted where he stood as Mr. Reese approached.  The Maned Wolf watched Harold while Mr. Reese studied their surroundings.  Whereas Harold did his best to ignore his daemon’s wants, Mr. Reese allowed his to take full control.  She would be the one he had to appeal to. 

“Good morning, Mr. Reese, Miss Morna.” 

Morna froze, paw poised in a half step as her human lunged forward.  Harold waved away his bodyguards and spoke with Mr. Reese.  Through the entire exchange, Morna never looked away from Harold, scrutinizing him as she stood next to her human.  The daemon was in an awful state, too skinny for her breed and hunched at her shoulders instead of the proud stance she wore in the hospital, moments before they learned about Jessica’s demise.  Harold knew that failure only too well.  Security footage over weeks showed the degradation of the wolf-that-wasn’t till she became the pitiably creature in front of him.        

When Harold offered to explain his plan to rescue people like Jessica further, Mr. Reese looked to his daemon for guidance.  Neither said a word or made a motion but Mr. Reese agreed to follow. 

 

001001001001001001

_Iguana_

            Driving to Oyster Bay was always nerve wrecking.  Although Lionel buried bodies more times than he cared to recall, it never got any easier.  Every red light that took too long to change felt like a set up.  Cars that tail gated him could be a cop.  Someone might recognize Lionel or someone would spot him as he shoveled muck.  Once, he happened upon another group who were halfway done with their own body and Lionel had to work fast to assure the nervous but well armed group that he had no intention of saying a word. 

It helped that his daemon was an iguana.  Had Nadia been a more aggressive monitor, perhaps a Tegu, Lionel doubted he would have lived past the encounter.  No one expected the almost domestic iguana to have a heart of gold or a brain made of more than straw.  Lionel played the bumbling fool (a trait that served him well in Jr High) and the other group waved him off. 

Today, Oyster Bay was empty but for a wading bird, hurrying through the water without stopping to search for food.  There wasn’t any.  Just to be sure no one was around, Lionel waited several minutes before walking out of his car, Nadia in one hand and his shovel in the other.  He transferred Nadia to his shoulder and asked her to hang on, neither of them wanting her to fall into the mud.  She couldn’t cling to him as well as she did as a juvenile, back when they first settled.  Back then she (and Lionel) was a tiny strip of a thing, Nadia no bigger than a TV remote.

“I guess we’re both getting’ pretty heavy, huh?” Lionel commented as he made his first shovel full.  Sunset was twenty minutes away and Lionel wanted to get this done before it got dark.  Ideally, after sunset would be the better time to burry a body but it’d been raining off and on all week.  Lionel didn’t want to get caught in a storm in the black.  Once he was done digging the hole he'd bring Still's body out.  That part was always the worst.  Hauling a dead body was terrible any day but it was horrible to see a person without their daemon.  He'd seen it time and time again while on the force but it was worse when you knew the guy, knew he had a Water Monitor when Lionel had an Iguana.  Although Lionel didn't want to compare himself to a monster like Stills, they were similar in regards to daemons.    

Nadia ‘ _humph_ ’ed but didn’t say another word.  She used to be a chatty daemon but sometime after Cornell died (was executed point blank for taking a cut of something he shouldn’t have) Nadia became the apathetic lizard they had always worried about becoming.  It wasn’t that Nadia was afraid to talk; she spoke her mind quite frequently – much to Lionel’s chagrin.  No, Nadia just didn’t care to carry on conversations anymore.   

“I don’t like that man,” she said after a while.  Lionel took a moment to rest and glanced over his shoulder at her where Nadia draped onto his back, claws clinging to his shirt. 

“Who?”

“The one who’s got ya diggin’,” she snapped.  “That damned Man in the Suit.  Honestly Lionel, I don’t understand how you could be so clueless.” 

He rubbed his nose but didn’t argue against his daemon.  If his soul said he was clueless, Lionel supposed he was clueless; like when Nadia said he was too lazy or that there was no point in being hung up over his ex because Lionel didn’t deserve her anyway.  A daemon knew you better than you knew yourself, so Lionel knew she was telling the truth. 

Except. . .

“I dunno.  He’s scary as hell and probably going to kill us, but I think that guy might be good for us,” he said in a quiet rush, half hoping Naida didn’t hear.  She did, of course. 

Nadia spun around, clawing at him as she righted herself by his ear to snarl. 

“ _What_? Did you just hear how stupid you are?  How is someone who is ‘most definitely’, not ‘probably’ going to kill us, good for us?”  Her voice was loud and agitated as a roach on sticky paper.  “That car crash – that The Man caused – must have scrambled your brains because you are off it today, Lionel.”

Flushing in embarrassment at his daemon’s assessment, Lionel went quiet and dug.  It was harder to see where he was digging now that the sun was at the horizon.  His light turned a shade of red that was passed over in a crayon box for being too brown.  It cast dark shadows in the pit he dug, sea water filling it back in as goop around the edges threatened to cave-in. 

“I just thought. . . Maybe this is our chance to do some good, again,” Lionel said when the sun was gone and the sky gray before all light disappeared.  “I mean, we’ve been dirt cops for a few years now, right?”

“No, we’ve been loyal,” Nadia snapped back.  Lionel winced at the correction and kept digging but didn’t stop talking.

“We were loyal to Cornell and that wound up with him dead.”  Lionel refused to look out over the bay to where he’d had to bury his partner.  “We don’t have anyone we’re loyal to anymore.  We just stuck around because we’d gotten into the habit of how things run on this side.”            

“You’re talking in circles, Lionel.  You should really shut up,” Nadia said when he paused to think.  She wasn’t nearly as loud as she had been before and it was easier for Lionel to pretend he hadn’t heard her. 

“And yeah, this guy could kill us, and HR could kill us for goin’ against them, but it seems like he’s. . . I dunno, it seems like it could be a clean break for us.”

“Lionel, how does burring a body in the same cesspool we’ve been digging in for years equal a ‘clean break’?”  Nadia swatted at his ear but Lionel didn’t mind.  He was thinking about it, working for John. 

What John said about loyalty, it struck a chord with Lionel.  He got into the business because of Cornell, but the man had been dead going on two years now.  This was his chance to get back to being the cop he wanted to be, back in the academy days when Nadia had been hopeful about their life.  It didn’t make sense, but Lionel got a gut feeling that John would be their shot at being something better.  Maybe it was because the man’s daemon was so mangy looking but the man himself was bright, clean and alive.  The second time he saw John, the man’s daemon had that same intensity in her eyes. 

Lionel wanted that.  He’d been listening to Nadia since he was a child and it got them so deep into shit that Lionel was literally wading through it now.  He was late in life for it but Lionel was ready to try something new, to make a decision without Nadia’s influence. 

 

001001001001001001

_Dog_

Victor was confused.  And that was saying something because the dog lived in certainty.  Joss couldn’t help but chuckle at her daemon as he poured over all the information they had on ‘The Man in the Suit’.  His ears were cocked and his muzzle was twisted into a look of bewilderment that she hadn’t seen since Taylor’s daemon Rosalina settled as a sherbet colored Conure when she’d been marsupials all their life.  It was a mystery until they saw how social Taylor was.  Regardless, the kid was smart and Carter couldn’t help but be proud that her boy had a parrot, a scientist’s daemon.          

            “Joss, you need to focus on our case,” Victor instructed.  He had the stance and voice of an old general but it was ruined by how petulant his expression was.

“I am focusing on the case, Vic,” Joss said, managing not to roll her eyes.  “I think you’re the one who needs to refocus.  You’re gunning at this man like you’re a bloodhound.”

Affronted, Victor did his best to stand straighter and smooth all the wrinkles at his muzzle.  Bloodhounds were so uncouth.  Joss laughed in earnest.       

 ‘The Man in the Suit’ touched a nerve with the dog.  He was a criminal, assaulted fourteen men so far (with shot knee caps) and a danger to civilians while on the loose.  He also saved people.  That was the issue that irritated Victor.  The man was a villain but Joss could trace eyewitness accounts to rescue and the man destroying criminals bent on mayhem.

            “You’ve never been good with the gray area of crime, huh?”

            “Don’t go Post Modern crap on me,” Victor snipped back.  Joss raised her eyebrows.  The dog must be series to pull out a moderate swear.  It was always strange when one of them had an extreme emotion that the other couldn’t feel, but that was how they were.  After years of trying to mend their bond, the two of them still couldn’t understand the other like they could before military service.

            “There is no ‘gray area’, there is only Crime and Law,” Victor continued.  “The Man in the Suit’ has broken Law and must be brought to justice for it.  There is no good crime.”

            “I get what you’re saying, but you have to admit that guy Bill would have been killed if our guy hadn’t jumped in the elevator when he had.”

            “Only if you realize The Man maimed two men to do it.”

            “Two men who were armed to begin with.”

            Victor made a noise deep in his chest.  Joss could feel flecks of his emotion, an anger and sense of indignation that started their fight.  She closed the file and turned to face her daemon.  Victor looked miserable. 

            “What he’s doing is wrong,” Victor said, voice very small.

            “I know, Vic.  And we’re going to catch him.  Don’t doubt that.”  She held a hand out and after a moment, Victor leaned forward and let her scratch his jaw.  “How about we go outside for a while?  Try and track down that bum who was in here a few days ago before his ‘lawyer’ scooped him up.”

            “I’m not a bloodhound,” Victor insisted.  Joss laughed and moved to squeeze his pointed ears. 

            “I know you’re not.  I was only teasing.” 

            Her daemon properly soothed, Joss cleared their desk and put ‘The Man in the Suit’s file away.  Victor stood with his typical show-dog poise as they left the building.     

 


End file.
